


Trust In Me (When I Say)

by winterwaters



Series: We Could Be [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - After College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Light Bondage, Power Exchange, Smut, Wedding Night, mostly just dopey happy sex, very mild stuff, we could be universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-14 22:27:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7193372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterwaters/pseuds/winterwaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So Mrs. Blake,” Bellamy’s lips brush the shell of her ear, soft yet purposeful. “What do you say we ditch this party?” </p><p>Clarke twists to look up at him. Firelight casts shadows on the edges of his smile, heightens the playful gleam in his eyes.  “This party is our <em>wedding,</em> in case you forgot already.”</p><p>“No,” he counters, “our wedding was three hours ago.” His eyes go soft with the memory, and she butts her nose against his cheek until he refocuses and smiles crookedly. “It was three hours ago,” he repeats. “Now I’m ready to take my wife home.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust In Me (When I Say)

**Author's Note:**

> Wheee, this was fun! Wanted to return to this universe and also try something different. Hope you enjoy! :) Title from the Frankie Valli song.

Clarke curls her toes into the sand with a contented sigh, leaning back into the warmth of Bellamy’s body. She can feel his smile where he brushes a kiss to her temple, his arm winding around her waist to fit her more snugly between his legs.

It’s just them and their little family, surrounded by nothing but miles of beach and open water. Wine has left her limbs pleasantly heavy, her mind in a comforting lull that matches the faint rush of waves on the shore. August is warm without being unbearable; the wind keeps tugging at the edges of her dress, as if encouraging her to come dance again.

They’d danced _a lot._ She and Bellamy, she and Raven, she, Raven and Octavia; even she and Miller had taken a spin, gotten completely goofy until he deposited her back in Bellamy’s arms, where they swayed for song after song, the notes breaking and lifting through Jasper’s old boombox before being carried on the wind.

Clarke had danced with her mom too, gently pushing her in Kane’s direction afterwards. Abby had been surprisingly weepy throughout the ceremony, almost too much to bear at times. Thankfully Wells and Monty and Octavia were ready with an awful joke or three that stalled the tears fairly quick. And during the reception, Clarke caught Kane cuffing Bellamy’s head, an action so natural and fond that Bellamy hadn’t been able to stifle his laughter. He and Kane had become close over the years, more than either could have expected. Clarke already knew that Kane considered Bellamy a son; it made her heart happy to think Bellamy might finally be realizing it too.

Kane and Abby have officially been husband and wife for just two years, but they already act like an old married couple—they’d argued so long over the wedding gift that Clarke now has two separate orders being shipped to her. Actually three, counting the gift from Wells. He and his fiancee had made it to the ceremony only to realize they’d left the present neatly wrapped on the kitchen counter. Clarke cared more about seeing them than another item, but Wells had insisted, so she has a feeling the UPS delivery guy will quickly become her best friend in the coming weeks. Wells had stayed for two dances, but had to leave soon after to make it to his soon-to-be-in-law’s place for an anniversary party. Kane and Abby had also left an hour ago as the sun set, promising to visit the new house within the month.

In the meantime, her mother had given her another gift: the blue ribbon tied at the waist of her dress, serving as her something borrowed and something blue. Clarke plays with the paintbrush and caduceus charms on her silver bracelet—her something new, given by the girls who now sprawl just a few feet away.

Octavia has her head in Lincoln’s lap, her arms weaving her story into the air as she tells it. He wears the same patient, loving smile as usual, now and then reaching out to adjust the jacket over her legs when she shivers. Raven is winning her drinking game with Wick, punctuated by the occasional kiss when she thinks the others aren’t looking. Maya’s hanging onto Monty’s every word while Miller just laughs and tucks his head on his shoulder. Jasper clutches his drink nervously, probably because the story is about him, but Maya’s delighted laugh makes him grin all the same. Murphy and Emori sit just slightly apart from the rest of the group, Emori’s head resting on Murphy’s shoulder, her voice pitched low just for him. He looks about as content as he ever gets. When Clarke catches his eye, he gives her a slight nod, raising his glass.

Bellamy met the two of them in grad school. He and Murphy had hit it off; Clarke and Murphy, not so much. Clarke smiles to herself as she thinks of the the silent treatment, the baleful glares. Nothing about that first month had been easy. She had spent a lot of time at the corner coffeeshop venting her irritations to Raven, or when Raven wasn’t around, the brunette barista that had just as quick a wit. That was, until she learned said barista happened to be Murphy’s girlfriend.

But rather than holding a grudge, Emori found the situation hilarious, and only resolved to make Clarke and Murphy see eye to eye. Over time, Clarke had learned about a different side to Murphy; it didn’t show up very often, but when it did Emori was usually involved somehow. Now, they aren’t exactly cozy friends—but they aren’t enemies, either, and that’s enough.

Ocean waves lap lazily at the shore, stretching time after time to reach their little group before fading away again. The rush of water creates a soothing rhythm behind the chatter of her friends’ conversations and the occasional clink of a wine glass. Clarke’s sure if she closes her eyes, she’d fall asleep right here, utterly wrapped in the peace of it all.

Turning her head, she places a light kiss on Bellamy’s throat, smiles when he squeezes her waist lightly in return.

“Hey you,” he murmurs.

“Hi.” She holds up their linked hands, her thumb absently rubbing over the ring on his third finger. A little giddy at the sight, she turns to her face towards his again, nips a little harder at his jaw. “We did it, Bellamy.”

“Having second thoughts already?”

Clarke rolls her eyes and elbows him as best she can in her current position. His laugh rumbles into her shoulder, makes the remaining few turn their heads questioningly, brief smiles flitting across their faces before they turn back to their conversations.

“So Mrs. Blake,” Bellamy’s lips brush the shell of her ear, soft yet purposeful. “What do you say we ditch this party?”

Clarke twists to look up at him. Firelight casts shadows on the edges of his smile, heightens the playful gleam in his eyes. “This party is our _wedding,_ in case you forgot already.”

“No,” he counters, “our wedding was three hours ago.” His eyes go soft with the memory, and she butts her nose against his cheek until he refocuses and smiles crookedly. “It was three hours ago,” he repeats. “Now I’m ready to take my wife home.”

Clarke bites her lip against the huge smile that threatens; she fails, miserably, if Bellamy’s ecstatic grin is any indication.

Pressing a swift kiss to her mouth, he lets go and stands, brushing sand from his clothes. The others look up at the abrupt movement. Clarke barely has time to blush in the dark before Bellamy pulls her up, then sweeps her into his arms with an incredibly stupid grin. She yelps, clinging to his shoulders.

“We’re leaving,” he announces, overly formal, and Clarke groans into his collar.

Raven snorts. “You don’t say.”

“My husband is a loser,” Clarke declares, though it’s ruined by the grin that steals across her face seconds later.

Octavia raises her glass. “I tried to warn you.”

“So did I,” Miller chimes in.

Bellamy only looks mildly offended. “Too late, guys. We’re all Official now.” He leaves wet kisses along Clarke’s cheek and neck until she giggles and smacks his shoulder.

“We better see you for brunch tomorrow,” Octavia adds when she’s finished pretending to gag. “What? You thought I was letting you off the hook because it’s your wedding? Lincoln and I have been married for years and we show up to brunch every Sunday.”

“We’ll be there.” Clarke glances pleadingly at Raven. “Please save my shoes.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“I don’t care about my shoes.” Bellamy tightens his grip, starting to walk away.

“Yes he does,” Clarke calls over his shoulder. “Save them too.” She waits for Monty’s thumbs-up before adding, “The booze is all yours guys, love you!” A chorus of yells and piercing whistles echoes behind them as Bellamy continues towards the car. Clarke shrieks when he slips and slides on the sand several times, purposely pretending to drop her at points until she’s got fistfuls of his shirt, scolding him with what breath she has left.

She looks up at him when they reach the Jeep. “You’re ridiculous.”

Grinning, he sets her down, cages her against the door with his arms on either side of her. “You love it,” he retorts, not giving her a chance to reply before his lips are on hers. She meets him eagerly, opens her mouth and barely waits for him to do the same before chasing his tongue, pressing as close to him as she can get until he groans and leans his weight into her.

“I can’t wait to take you home,” he breathes. Clarke hums her agreement against his jaw, raking her nails along the nape of his neck.

“Too bad we can’t go to our new home just yet,” she mumbles.

Bellamy’s silence makes her look up curiously. He’s smiling, smug and secretive, and she tugs on his shirt collar in question. “Clarke,” he says, “did you really think we weren’t going to spend our wedding night in _our_ house?”

Her mouth drops open. “Bellamy. What did you do?”

He winks and opens the passenger door with a flourish. “Come and see.”

She doesn’t hesitate. He laughs as she stuffs her skirt around her on the seat, affectionately pecking her cheek before rounding to the driver’s side and pulling out a pair of sneakers from under the seat. They’re on the road quickly, and Clarke can’t stop herself from kissing him silly at red lights, laughing when her red lipstick stains his skin.

Soon Bellamy is pulling up in front of the house they bought just last month, the one they haven’t had time to even move into with all the craziness of their lives. As the tires roll over the smooth paved driveway, Clarke is struck once again by the fact that the place is _theirs,_ truly theirs. Her eyes wander over the large front porch, something both she and Bellamy had immediately agreed they wanted. The huge tree in the front yard that they'll probably attach a tire swing to, because her husband is a gleeful child when he wants to be and she can't get enough of it. The exterior of the house is a light, buttery yellow. On first sight, Clarke had felt the warmth it invited within; she gets the same feeling now as Bellamy turns off the engine.

Clarke jumps out and rounds the car before he’s even gotten out, grabbing his hand as they walk to the front door. He grins and produces a key from his pocket, the same one she has on the keychain shoved to the bottom of her purse.

He fits the key in the lock and pushes the door open, but catches her by the waist when she tries to walk in. “Come on, princess, don’t you know the rules?”

She lets him hoist her into his arms again, slinging her arm around his neck and laying her head on his shoulder while he walks inside, kicking the door shut behind them. The house is empty aside from some stray chairs in the soon-to-be dining room, so there’s nothing for Bellamy to bump into in the dark. Still he moves slowly, and she doesn’t urge him to speed up, basking in the gentle sway of his arms.

When they closed the deal on the house a month ago, they thought they’d be mostly moved in by now. But planning a wedding, even their idea of a simple one, turned out to be no small feat, and in addition to their now full-time jobs, things had gotten delayed whether they liked it or not. So, their stuff was still partly in the old apartment and partly in storage. They’d decided a honeymoon wasn’t even possible right away with everything going on at school and work, so the plan had been to move in the weekend after their wedding and take a proper honeymoon later. Apparently Bellamy had his own plans, though.

“Okay, you can’t carry me up the stairs,” Clarke protests when they get to the living room.

“I can’t?” Bellamy raises an eyebrow in challenge, and oh god, that means he’s going to do something stupid.

“Shouldn’t,” she says hastily. “You really shouldn’t. Otherwise you’ll be useless the rest of tonight.” Leaning in, she sucks gently on his pulse, toys with the loosened tie at his neck. “And I would hate for us to waste our wedding night…” She breaks off in laughter as he sets her down instantly, only to tip her face up for a searing kiss, walking her backwards until her back hits the banister. She tugs him up the stairs, pausing at the top when his mouth lands on her earlobe, hot and biting.

“Wh-which way?” She manages.

“Left.” Bellamy gives a final light tug to her earlobe, then trails his hands down her arms to tangle their fingers. He sticks to her like a shadow, mouthing at her bare shoulder and nuzzling her neck until she thinks her legs might give way before they reach the room.

At the door, Bellamy releases one of her hands and hurries to her side, looking for all the world like a kid who can’t wait to open his present. Or rather, watch her open it. Grinning hugely, he nods towards the door, wiggling his eyebrows. Clarke lifts to her tiptoes to kiss him first, then pushes the door open.

The sweet fragrance of peonies hits her first. The flowers, in small bouquets of pink and white and purple and even a few pops of red, line the windowsill. Their bed sits in the middle of the room, but now it’s raised on a new, thick frame, with a beautiful wrought-iron headboard behind the pillows. The navy comforter is the same one they’ve been sharing for years; seeing it here in their new home just makes everything that much more real. Candles sit on floating shelves around the room, waiting to be lit. The walls have been painted a pale blue, just like she’s constantly been talking about doing for weeks.

Clarke stares at the scene and then at Bellamy, stunned into silence for several minutes.

“I—when did you—? How?” She’s at a loss.

“After the bachelor party,” Bellamy grins sheepishly at her surprised bark of laughter. “Apparently I make very ambitious drunken proclamations… I said a lot of things about how I wanted to make this house ours.” Of course he did. God, she loves him so fucking much. His shrug is a familiar, nervous gesture. “The guys took me up on it. We came here, put together a plan, then just did it over the next few days. I figured you were too busy to walk in on us.”

When she still can’t do much but stare in awe, he swallows. “I know you wanted to paint the room and all, but—”

“We’ll paint the rest of the house,” she interrupts, finding her voice. Going to him, she frames his face in her hands, strokes his cheek with her thumb. “I love you, Bellamy,” she whispers. “Thank you for this. It’s wonderful. _You’re_ wonderful.”

She feels his relieved smile when she kisses him, winds her arms around him tight and draws her lips across his cheek, his jaw, his chin, until he slides a hand into her hair and pulls her mouth back to his. Clarke always feels a little drunk when Bellamy kisses her like this, slow and all-consuming, each stroke of his tongue melting her limbs a little more until she’s just there for the ride, feeling impossibly loved when he pulls back to rest his forehead against hers.

“Bellamy,” she says softly. “We got married.”

He smiles with the same delirious happiness she knows is in her voice. “We sure did.” His fingers drift down across the bodice of her dress, over the floaty fabric of her skirt. “And now I know the real reason why grooms aren’t allowed to see the bride before the wedding.”

“Oh?” Clarke raises an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

Bellamy’s smirk could light every candle in the room. “Because I’d have taken you home then and there, that’s why.”

Clarke’s mouth goes a little dry at the thought. “Well,” she finally manages, “good thing you didn’t. Mom might’ve killed you for not letting her witness her only daughter’s wedding.”

“No she wouldn’t. She wants grandkids.” He wiggles his eyebrows so hard that she has to laugh, shaking her head. When he starts to pull away, she pouts and grabs his tie. Chuckling, he smoothes back her hair, kisses her sweetly. “I’m not going far.” As he picks up the lighter and goes to the first candle, Clarke looks around the room again.

The soft glow of candlelight accentuates the high bedposts, adding shadows that stretch to the high ceiling. It’s the headboard that attracts her eyes, the vinelike pattern lovely above the two horizontal beams that run the width of the bed. Bellamy catches her eyeing it rather longingly.

“Yeah,” he rumbles, drawing her back against his chest, “I thought you might like that.”

Clarke grins up at him despite the flush heating her neck, meeting his lips with a little bite. They’ve been together long enough that he knows her secrets, knows how much she enjoys getting him on his back, a little desperate for her. They’ve had so many years to try new things, to experiment, to just _play._ And it was during one of those loose moments that Clarke had discovered exactly what a rush she got from having Bellamy completely at her mercy. Part of the reason it worked so well was because she knew that at any given point, the opposite was also true: he was the only one to whom she’d give such control, such trust. Bellamy had picked up on exactly how turned on she got the first time they did even the mildest of power exchanges, and so it’s become almost an inside joke now, an intimate knowledge that only the two of them are privy to.

So he doesn’t hesitate when she loosens his tie, even ducks his head to help her pull it off, dropping a kiss on her nose. With a mischievous grin, Clarke loops the tie over her own head, fingers teasingly following the line of fabric over the curve of her chest.

Bellamy groans, knocking their foreheads together. “Damn I love you.” His breath shakes on her cheek.

She sets her palms on the hard planes of his chest and gives a little push. Bellamy drops to the bed willingly. When she moves forward, arms encircling his shoulders, his knees part in welcome. But his hands grip her waist before she can go further.

“Wait, wait. I gotta— Let me take this off first,” he kisses the soft spot at her elbow, fingers the tulle peeking out at her knee. “Let me take the dress off, princess.”

As soon as she nods, his arms wrap around her. He runs a finger down the line of hooks, then looks up with a devious grin. His hands urge her to turn until she’s staring at the flickering shadow of the candles on the wall, her breaths coming out in soft, surprised puffs as Bellamy’s deft hands make quick work of the hooks. He noses apart the fabric, leaves wet, warm kisses along each bump and ridge of her spine that only make Clarke want more of his mouth everywhere. When her legs begin to tremble, she twists around again, steadying herself against his shoulders. Bellamy mouths lazily at her cleavage, the light stubble on his jaw making Clarke shiver. Abruptly, he gives a hard tug on her dress; it catches at her hips briefly before it slides to the floor. Bellamy murmurs in sympathy, soothes his tongue over the red marks where her strapless bra’s been cutting into her ribs all day.

She sighs, threading her fingers through his thick hair, soft against her cheek. He smiles at the goosebumps that rise on her skin. His hands skate up and down her legs, nails lightly scraping along her inner thighs.

“My turn,” Clarke says, and yeah she’s already breathless but that’s not really surprising. Bellamy just smiles and leans back, eyes alight.

“I’m all yours.”

Clarke feels a sudden, stupidly fierce surge of affection for him: her friend, her love, her _husband._ Their mouths meet in a bruising kiss as she straddles his lap, her hands a little frantic over his shirt buttons. Bellamy breaks away for air and to laugh at her frustrated grumbles when the buttons get caught. He's zero help, just nuzzling the swell of her breasts and scraping his teeth over her peaked nipples through the fabric until she’s clutching his shirt for balance, her own mission momentarily forgotten. His hands are everywhere—stroking her back, tangling in her hair, cupping her ass. Her body feels like it’s on fire everywhere he’s touched her; and everywhere he hasn’t is begging him to hurry up.

But it’s part of the game; he loves to distract her as long as possible, see how far he can get until she snaps out of it and remembers her original intentions. He unclasps her bra, one hand palming a heavy breast as his mouth latches over her nipple, sucks mean and hard so that every pull sends a little added shock to her aching cunt. Clarke feels the brush of his tie against her skin when he pulls away, and it makes her push her weight into him, added warmth pooling between her legs when he goes without an ounce of resistance. Smiling, she grabs his hands from her waist and presses them to the mattress by his head, leaning down to kiss him soundly and grinding atop the hard length that presses through his pants.

“Clarke,” Bellamy already sounds a little desperate when she lets him up for air. “What do you want?”

She releases his wrists and moves off him. “I want your shirt off. And you up there.” He scrambles to sit up, throwing his shirt aside and scooting up to the head of the bed where she’d pointed. “Yeah,” she sighs, removing the tie and going to sit beside him. “I do like this headboard.”

He grins, pleased. She taps his shoulder in suggestion and he lies back again, one hand drifting to the curve of her waist, just stroking lightly until she brings both hands up above his head. “Okay?” They’ve done this before, but she always asks.

“Okay,” he confirms. She gives him a quick kiss, her hand cupping his jaw, then leans over him to tie the fabric comfortably around both wrists. Bellamy lifts his head to kiss any part of her he can reach: her throat, her jaw, even curls his head to nip at the top of her breasts, generally being very hot and very distracting. The tips of his fingers are already brushing the the pattern of vines along the headboard.

Clarke grins. She’s not the only one who loves it.

After testing the knot, she sits up, bracing her hands on his chest, and Bellamy grins rakishly. “Guess I better get used to this position, huh?” His eyes drift to her stomach and back to her face.

Clarke laughs. Bellamy has made no secret of how badly he wants to knock her up, but she’ll never tire of hearing it. Threading her hands into his thick curls, she sucks gently on his bottom lip before giving him a proper kiss, letting his tongue chase hers and sucking on it hard and long until he groans and bucks his hips under her.

“Not just yet,” she reminds him with an added bite to his shoulder. “I want you to myself for a little longer.”

“I’m not complaining.”

“You know there are other safe sex positions during pregnancy, right?”

He returns her smirk with one of his own, his gaze raking over her. “Still. This tops the list.”

Clarke laughs and rocks her hips a little, just enough to make her breasts bounce. Bellamy makes a choked off noise in his throat. “Fuck, come here,” he rasps, straining up again. She meets him halfway, setting a hand gently on his bicep to push his arms back down to the mattress. He relaxes instantly, lets her set the pace with such trust that it makes her grateful for him all over again.

Sitting up, she runs her hands over the broad, firm expanse of his torso, pausing to trace the tattoo that covers his left pectoral and runs up to his shoulder. Her nails scrape lightly along the outline of the phoenix wing, inked as if opening from his heart, the tip of it extending just past his collarbone. Inside the longest feather is his favorite constellation, Cassiopeia. Along the bottom edge of the wing runs a line of script: _Let us be true._ It’s from one of his favorite poems—the same line she’d managed to insert into her vow just hours earlier, reveling in the flash of surprise and pure joy that had erupted in Bellamy’s smile.

Clarke looks up to find Bellamy watching her now; his soft gaze feels like a caress. “I still can’t believe you let me design this,” she murmurs.

“No one better for the job.” Bellamy always says it like that, lightly, like it’s nothing—except it’s really everything.

She still remembers her initial resistance, the overwhelming feeling of his complete faith in her. It had been intimidating, to be handed such trust beyond a doubt. Then she’d thought of how it would feel, to see her artwork on his body. It would be like giving him a piece of her to carry at all times. And it suddenly it wasn’t overwhelming—it was thrilling.

After seeing her original sketch, Bellamy had decided on adding the quote, and so the piece had become truly theirs after that.

Clarke drags her nail lightly down his chest, delighting in his shiver. His arms flex on instinct. Then he takes a deep breath and fully relaxes, offering his body like a canvas for her lips. She bites a treacherous path down his sternum, each touch of her teeth to his skin a little different than the last; sometimes purposeful, sometimes playful. His hips narrow sharply below the waistband of his slacks, and she follows the line of one with her tongue, eagerly unzipping his pants and sneaking her hand into his briefs. Bellamy’s sigh is one of mixed desperation and relief. He’s hot and heavy against her palm, pushing into her hand as she gives a few quick strokes.

His obvious longing always gets Clarke a little crazy to get her hands and mouth on him. She yanks on his pants with little finesse, dragging them and his boxers over his hips and down his legs into a heap on the floor. Crawling over him, she takes hold of his thick cock in one hand while her lips trace the line of him from base to tip.

“Clarke—” Bellamy groans. Flicking her eyes up to his, she darts her tongue out to taste. His head falls back to the pillow and she grins.

She opens her mouth over his cockhead, lets her breath just ghost over his flushed skin while she pumps him, slicking up her hand as she goes. Glancing up, she gets an added rush at the exposed column of his neck, his chest expanding with heavy breaths as he tries to stay in control. She closes smiling lips around his cock, humming as his drawn out groan echoes in the room.

Without warning, Bellamy’s thigh flexes where she’s straddled his leg. Clarke whines high in her throat, clenching down on instinct. The added friction against her damp underwear is almost too much. Bellamy’s smirk disappears as soon as her mouth takes his cock, drawing it in further with each wet slurp, tongue fluttering over his slit until he’s straining not to fuck her mouth. Clarke lifts an eyebrow, letting his cock push a little against her cheek as she glances up at him.

“Fuck, Clarke, you’re too good at that,” he chokes out.

Grinning, she releases him with a wet pop, keeps sliding her hand along his length while she leans up to nip at his hipbone. Her breasts slide against his cock as she does so, and Bellamy jerks upwards with a broken moan. Clarke laughs a little against his skin despite the ache in her cunt. Sliding back down, she keeps her eyes fixed on his as she cups her breasts in both hands and slowly envelops his cock in between them.

“Jesus— Clarke, you gotta untie me, I can’t—” Bellamy breaks off in a shudder, his arms straining. Clarke crawls up to kiss him roughly, letting him curl his tongue into her mouth. “I want to feel you on my cock, babe,” Bellamy croons into her jaw. “Come on, untie me. I need to touch you.”

“Just a little longer,” she breathes, kissing him again. “Can you do that for me?” Clarke twines her fingers with his, tasting the sweat on his temple, on his cheek. Bellamy whines softly, but there’s a sweet warmth in his eyes when he nods. “Say it,” she insists.

“A little longer,” he repeats. “I can do that.”

Clarke smiles and kisses him again, fierce and grateful. “I love you,” she murmurs, and he smiles against her lips and nudges her nose with his own.

Easing off him for a second, she strips off her underwear with a wiggle, tossing it in a corner and grinning over her shoulder when he laughs. The sound of Bellamy’s laughter is second to none. She kisses him again, savoring, and gives his arm a light, reassuring squeeze before making her way back down his body.

His cock is leaking well and good now. She’s messier about it this time, wrapping her lips around the head and sucking in long pulls, getting more turned on by the sight of Bellamy clutching the headboard, his head lifted to watch her with hungry eyes. Usually he’ll tangle one hand in her hair, or sometimes tap her jaw to open wider. Her mouth opens a little more at the thought, his cock bumping the back of her throat and briefly making her tighten and gag before she manages to breathe through her nose.

“Shit, princess.” Bellamy’s wrecked voice makes her toes curl. She hums in agreement, only withdrawing a little before taking him back in. His leg pushes against her cunt again, this time bare, and the friction makes her whine needily around his cock in her mouth. Bellamy’s whole body jerks. “Clarke, I need—”

“Yeah,” she agrees hoarsely. She needs, too. Scrambling up, she fumbles at the knot around his wrists. As soon as the tie loosens, Bellamy’s arms are around her. He sits up simultaneously, cradling one big hand behind her neck.

“Come here,” he kisses her hot and filthy, fucks his tongue past her swollen lips and snakes his other hand between their bodies, two fingers sinking into her cunt. Clarke keens into his mouth, not wanting him to move and needing more at the same time. “I know, I know,” Bellamy murmurs. “God, you’re so beautiful, you know that?” He nips at her jaw, fingers crooking inside her and making her jerk on his lap. “My beautiful, amazing, wife,” he says with a smile, and it’s all Clarke can do to kiss him senseless.

He shushes her protest when his hand pulls back, settling it on her hip instead to let her feel how wet his fingers are as he holds her over his cock, drags her down sure and slow until her eyes nearly roll back. She clenches around him, rolls her hips hard and perfect so that he’s swearing against her breasts, his fingers leaving imprints in her skin that’ll last more than a day.

Then Bellamy hooks a strong arm around her back, holds her hips down and and fucks up into her until she’s gasping his name and clutching at his shoulders, mouth half-open on a sigh against his cheek. Just as Clarke gets used to the steady rhythm, his cock hitting that wonderful spot inside her, sweat-slicked skin creating all sorts of friction—Bellamy lifts her off him, follows so she’s on her back and drapes his body over hers. Her thighs part easily to welcome him again, hips lifting as he sinks back inside her, his breath coming in soft puffs against her forehead.

She’s raising her arms to wrap around his shoulders when Bellamy pulls back with a half-grin, catches her wrists and places her arms overhead. Instinctively she curls her fingers over the headboard, arching her back and biting her lip a little as she looks up at him.

“I'm all yours,” she says, parroting his earlier words.

Bellamy’s eyes go a little wild. His kiss is scorching, more teeth than tongue, and she burns with it, cradles his hips between her legs and lets out his name in soft, plaintive gasps while his hips snap repeatedly into hers. The sweet, slow pleasure comes back roaring, and when she clenches down around him gasping through her teeth Bellamy comes, burying his face into the hollow of her neck and reaching up to wind his fingers around hers. That’s what does it for her, the weight of his body and his fingers gripping hers, his cock pulsing, and that’s it, she’s gone too.

When Clarke blinks her eyes open, Bellamy is stretched out next to her, an adoring smile on his face. His hand lightly run along her stomach and between her breasts.

“Okay?” he asks.

“Better than okay,” she says, sated, and his grin turns wicked.

“Good.” Something tightens over her wrists and she looks up to see the black fabric of his tie neatly binding her arms together, one wrist crossed over the other. Bellamy shifts to hover over her, stealing all her breath with a long, fervent kiss. “My turn now,” he growls, and Clarke has no doubt he’ll make excellent use of it.

* * *

It’s still dark when she wakes. Bellamy’s soft snores make her smile as she stretches and feels the sweet ache within her limbs. She turns her head. Her husband’s face is half smashed into the pillows, only the line of his cheek and the top of his left eye visible. She’s sandwiched under his arm, curled around her tight like he refuses to let go even in sleep.

Shifting, she leans over and presses a kiss to his cheek, resting her forehead against his hair for a moment.

“Love you,” she murmurs.

He protests a little when she slides out of his hold, but doesn’t wake otherwise. Clarke grins and pulls on his button-up from the floor, tiptoeing downstairs to the kitchen. She’s searching through the cupboards, vainly hoping for glasses, when the light flickers on. Before she can turn, Bellamy’s arms wrap around her waist, his chin tucked on her shoulder.

“Mrs. Blake,” his voice is rough and scratchy; god, but she loves being the only one to hear it. “You want to start christening all the rooms in the house already?”

Clarke’s laugh turns into a helpless gasp as he slips two fingers between her legs, stroking hard and quick. She clutches at him, nails leaving half moons in his forearm as she tries to hold him there, tilt her hips harder. But as quickly as he starts, he stops, withdrawing his hand to her waist. She whines and tries to chase his fingers. His teeth nip the shell of her ear.

“Uh-uh,” Bellamy says lowly, sending a shiver through her frame. “Tell me, Clarke.”

“Yes,” she manages, arching back. “God, yes, Bellamy I want to fuck you in every room of the house. Our house.” She reaches back to thread her fingers into his messy curls.

He moans agreeably, splaying one hand across her ribcage, the other returning to her cunt. She twists her head, searching, until his lips slant across hers, warm and hungry. He gives her what she wants, gets three fingers full and deep inside her until she's a shuddering mess, her pleas for _more_ making him growl appreciatively into her ear. When his thumb bears down on her clit, her words turn to high-pitched gasps, the only sound in the house as she comes.

Bellamy noses the hollow of her neck, lays an occasionally biting kiss as she recovers from the roaring in her ears. “So hot. Always so good around my fingers,” he rumbles. She sags against the counter, then jerks when he twists his hand. “What do you think, princess? Want to get up on the counter the way you like? Let me get my mouth on you again?”

Clarke clenches with a high whine, because _fuck, yes,_ but when his hips rock into her she feels the hard line of his cock through his sweats and she _wants._

“Later,” she takes his hand, curls her tongue around his fingers and sucks, and Bellamy’s hips snap forward, the harsh slap of his hand on the counter echoing in the empty kitchen. Clarke turns in time for their lips to crash together. She rises to her toes and bands her arms around his neck to pull their bodies flush, rubbing every inch of her body against his until Bellamy curses and bites her lip hard. Blindly, she walks them backwards, refusing to detach her mouth from his. They nearly trip over a chair in their eagerness, and Bellamy laughs against her lips and pulls her onto his lap, hands wandering under her shirt. Settling atop him more fully, she catches her name off his lips and rides him until they’re both wrecked.

“Now I really need a drink,” she rasps, cheek flat against his shoulder. Bellamy’s laugh vibrates into her, sends her already tingling body a little higher and she clenches involuntarily.

“Oh, princess,” Bellamy half groans, half sighs, opening his mouth over her pulse. “So greedy.”

She leans back, tips her head down to kiss him slow and burning, her hands ruffling through his hair until it’s a thoroughly wild mess, the way she likes it best.

“Okay,” Bellamy agrees hoarsely. “Drink first.”

Clarke grins. “Any chance you guys remembered to bring cups in the middle of all your scheming?”

* * *

She’s rummaging through a box marked _misc._ in Bellamy’s hopelessly neat handwriting when the man in question calls her name. Even from here she can tell he sounds a bit off. She makes her way over to the kitchen, but it’s empty.

“Bell? Where are you?”

“In here,” he calls, and his voice comes from behind the kitchen. Her brow furrows. What could he—

Oh. _Oh._

Clarke hurries around the counter and through the open archway, bouncing down the two steps to get to the little room in the back. Bellamy stands in the doorway, wonder etched on his face as he takes in the newly converted office.

In all the excitement of the day (and night), she’d completely forgotten about her own little surprise, the one she’d been saving for their official moving day. The room had been a bit of a question mark at first, neither of them sure what to use it for. A guest room was unnecessary, in their minds. Bellamy had asked her if she wanted a studio, but the second floor room with bay windows had already stolen her heart for that.

Then it had hit her. It would be a perfect home office and partial library for Bellamy, a place to retreat when he needed to work or read in quiet. He was always sprawled across the couch, the dining table, the floor with his papers and books, and most of the time she loved it, because it was just how he worked. But lately she’d noticed his frustration when he couldn’t find papers or how his back protested the awkward angles. They weren’t in college anymore. Plus, with all their plans to populate the house… yeah, they’d need a hideout.

So she’d enlisted the help of her friends and put together a plan. Now the entire right wall houses a built-in bookcase with the long shelves she and Raven put in just last week. The massive desk, its chestnut wood dark and polished, was a little harder to smuggle in, but between Miller, Octavia and Lincoln, they managed. She has one more coat of forest green to layer on the walls, but seeing Bellamy in the room, it already suits him so well. The only thing missing is the desk chair, simply because she hasn’t found it yet.

Smiling, Clarke steps inside the office and takes his hand. Bellamy turns to her in a daze. “You did this?”

“Yeah. It’s not completely done. I was going to surprise you when we moved.”

“When did you even have the time?”

She laughs softly. “Remember all the times I said I was doing wedding stuff with the girls?” She spreads her arms wide. “Wedding stuff.”

Bellamy breaks into a dazzling grin. “Sneaky,” he says proudly, then yanks her into a crushing hug. “I really love you,” he murmurs, voice breaking a little.

Clarke hugs him back fiercely. “Love you too, husband,” she says, and he laughs, slotting his mouth over hers. “I still have to find you a proper chair for the desk, though,” she says afterwards.

She yelps when he picks her up without warning, her legs curling around his waist as he takes a few purposeful steps. Her next shudder is partially due to the cold wood of the desk against her bare ass, and partially from the heat simmering in Bellamy’s eyes.

“I can think we can make it work,” he husks, and she nods frantically and pulls his mouth back to hers.

* * *

They don’t make it to brunch the next day; no one’s really surprised.


End file.
